


Overprotective

by imma_redshirt



Series: Héctor and Miguel Just Being Héctor and Miguel [3]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen, gah just ignore the title please, mid movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: Miguel accuses Héctor of being overprotective. If trying to keep a kid from toppling off a trolley zipping by hundreds of feet in the air is considered overprotective, then Héctor’s not going to argue.





	Overprotective

**Author's Note:**

> Short bit of mid movie nonsense. I wanted to write something lighthearted, and my word count for January is dismal, so I thought I'd whip up something quick before the end of the month.
> 
> Also, it's been a while since I last saw the movie, so I don't have a clear memory of the trolley scene. If I've made any mistakes, please let me know!

All Miguel had wanted to do was sit on the railing like Héctor.

With one leg hanging off the side, back against the metal wall of the trolley, the skeleton looked relaxed--more relaxed than someone sitting on a railing hundreds of feet in the air _should_ look, actually. He was tuning Chicharon’s guitar as he talked, the colors of the Land of the Dead drifting by behind him as the trolley zipped along. 

Miguel hadn’t given his energy level much thought, but now that they finally had a moment to just be _still,_ he was suddenly very aware of his exhaustion. His feet hurt, too, and standing suddenly seemed like a chore. He wanted to sit somewhere, and sitting on the metal floor seemed too cramped.

“I taught de la Cruz everything he knows,” Héctor was saying, plucking lightly at one chord that was oddly resistant to being tuned correctly. 

Hands already on the railing, ready to pull himself up, Miguel paused to snort and roll his eyes. The _last_ thing he had expected to spend his Dia de Muertes doing was stand around and listen to a lying skeleton who could sing and play the guitar. And yet there he was, standing around on a trolley in the air, listening to a skeleton with a guitar lie about the greatest musician in Mexican history.

Héctor clicked his tongue and waved a dismissive hand at him. “Ah, don’t believe me, then! But it’s the truth! De la Cruz couldn’t even _hold_ a guitar before I showed him how to--”

With a _hup!_ , Miguel pulled himself up onto the railing, and rested his back against the trolley wall. 

Not bad, he thought, holding the railing with a death grip. Buildings swept by at his side, a blur of lights and colors, details like windows and balconies only discernible if Miguel took the time to focus. The wind rustled the material of his hoodie, warm against his face. 

Rolling his shoulders, relaxed, he anchored his heels against the lowest rung of the railing to steady himself. He could definitely spend the whole ride this way. Felt good to finally be off his--

A skeletal hand grabbed his shoulder tight, and quick as a flash yanked him to the side, until he tumbled back onto the metal flooring of the trolley with a yelp. Héctor pulled him until he was as far from the railing as possible, almost shoving him back into the trolley door, and was staring at Miguel as if he had broken his leg or something. 

“Hey!” Miguel snapped, pulling back until Héctor’s hand was off his shoulder. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“What am _I_ doing?” Héctor gestured sharply at him, glaring. “What are _you_ doing? Sitting on the railing like that! What if you fell, eh?”

Miguel couldn’t believe it. Gesturing sharply back at Héctor in return, he said, “You were sitting on it too!”

“Yes, but chamaco, listen,” Héctor gestured at himself this time with both hands, and Miguel noticed Chicharon’s guitar discarded on the floor, as if it had been flung aside. “I am dead, and a skeleton. If I fall from this thing, I scatter, pass out for a second, yadda yadda, and then I _pull myself back together_ because that's something that _I_ , as a skeleton, can do, y yah! All done. If _you_ fall, kid, well….”

Miguel’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t even thought of falling off the side. With a gulp, he glanced over the railing, into the mass of purples and golds and mixes of colors of the Land of the Dead, the wind stinging his face.

The ground was very, very, very far down. 

“If you fall,” Héctor continued, glancing over the side with him. “It would not be so easy to pull you back together, would it?”

Miguel grimaced and took one small, tiny step back from the railing. He hadn’t wanted to think about what would happen if he fell off the trolley, but now that Héctor had brought it up…

“Yeah, well,” Miguel said, trying not to think of himself hitting the ground from so high up. “If _you_ fell, you’d still get pretty hurt. Bones break!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Héctor said. “My bones have broken before. I can survive that.”

“It does matter,” Miguel said with a frown. “You’d get hurt.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It _is_ the same.”

They stared at each other challengingly, Miguel narrowing his eyes and Héctor crossing his arms. Miguel didn’t get why Héctor cared so much about Miguel’s safety, but then didn’t seem to care that much about his own. If Abuelita had been there, she’d have yelled at him until he promised never to endanger himself ever again.

She’d have done the same to Miguel, but that was beside the point.

After a few more seconds of glaring at each other, Héctor finally rolled his eyes and went to lean against the trolley door. He crossed his arms again and arched an eye ridge at Miguel.

“Fine. I won’t sit on the railing if you don’t. Deal?”

“Deal,” Miguel said, and went to stand next to him, also crossing his arms. As Héctor leaned down to pick up the guitar, Miguel said lightly, “Man, I didn’t know skeletons would be so overprotective.”

Héctor whipped his head up to glare incredulously at him. “Overprotective? Weren’t you listening to what I just said?”

Miguel shrugged. “Yeah. I was listening to you being overprotective. I wasn’t gonna fall, I was holding on!”

“Ok, ok, fine!” Héctor waved his hand angrily. “I’m not going to argue with you anymore. If trying to keep a kid from toppling off a trolley speeding by hundreds of feet in the air is considered overprotective, then fine, I’m overprotective. But just wait until _you_ have to deal with an annoying kid, and see how ‘overprotective’ you get.”

“Pfft.”

“Don’t _pffft_ at me, chamaco! I’m being serious!”

“Yeah right, just like you were being serious about de la Cruz?”

“Hey,” Héctor said, and played three quick notes on the guitar. “I did teach that guy everything he knows. And we played together all the time!”

“No manches!”

With a smirk, Miguel listened to Héctor lie about playing music with Ernesto de la Cruz, safe against the trolley wall, as they neared the concert of a lifetime.

\------------------------

_**Seven years later**_

Coco was going to give him a heart attack.

“Coco, no!”

With a curious glance, Coco waved at Miguel from eight feet up, little shoes planted on the thin branch of the courtyard tree as she held onto the trunk for balance. A gust of wind swept by, and Coco wobbled where she stood. Miguel gasped, but his little sister only giggled and steadied herself.

“Get down from there!” Miguel said, standing at the base of the tree, heart pounding. Instead of following orders, Coco took a step farther from the trunk. Miguel gasped again. “Socorro Rivera, if you don’t listen to me, I’m gonna tell Abuelita!”

“But Miguel!” Coco said, now with just two little fingers touching the tree trunk. “I’m not gonna fall!”

Time for a different tactic. “Coco, we need to get ready for Dia de Muertos! Don’t you wanna help spread the cempasuchitl flowers? Our family needs you to guide them home, you know.”

Coco paused. Miguel held his breath. After a moment, the seven year old sighed and began to climb down. Miguel didn’t relax until she was safe on the ground, looking up at him with an exasperated look.

“Miguel,” she said, hands on her hips, “You don’t have to be so, so, ober--over protection!”

Miguel’s heart stopped. His mind turned to a time years ago, when he’d still been a kid, standing on a trolley listening to Papa Héctor. He winced and said slowly, “Do you mean overprotective?”

“Yeah!” 

Miguel sighed. “You’re right, Coco. I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get hurt. Next time, you wait for me to climb the tree with you, ok?”

Coco hopped in place. “Ok! Can I have a concha?”

“Let’t try to ask Mama for one,” Miguel said. He reached his hand out until Coco reached up to grab it, and walked with her to their home, listening to her sing a disjointed lyric she’d made about orange flowers.

The bells signaling the start of Dia de los Muertos had rung an hour ago, and Miguel was certain that the phantom laughter he’d heard after bribing Coco out of the tree had not been his imagination.

Somewhere in another realm, a satisfied musical ancestor was laughing at him.


End file.
